The Way of the Shield
by louisestrange
Summary: AU written for the Kurtofskyfest Gift Exchange. "My mother says I have a disease of the mind and the morals...I have never felt especially drawn to the charms of a woman," David mutters, shrugging his shoulders, tense with a fear that only the truth brings, "such is my illness." Hummel smiles softly at him. "You don't look, to me, as though you are ailing."


**Warnings: Mild violence, very minor character death.**  
**A/N: Written for Fred (lumberjackfritz) as part of the Kurtofsky Winterfest Gift Exchange on tumblr for the prompts: "Fantasy (think Lord of the Rings) & "Protection". I went with a broad interpretation of 'Protection' and setting that's maybe a little more Game of Thrones than Lord of the Rings (largely inspired by the concept of the Nights Witch in GoT, although you don't need to be familiar with that in order to appreciate this fic). ****Elvish translations at the end.**

**I'd love to hear what you think, especially as this differs quite a bit from my other Kurtofsky fics, so please leave a review! Enjoy!**

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The Way of the Shield.

The melting snow has grown thin and slippery underfoot. David hoists the bag that now contains his every meagre possession farther up and over his shoulder, the rough rope strap cutting into his skin unpleasantly as he does, and follows behind the rest of the recruits up the steep, dark trail that leads, finally, to a clearing, a makeshift camp; to the promise of a good meal and a warm fire and to the long, cold months ahead; to his future, his new life.

When he catches sight of the fire he physically shivers. The cold has seeped deep into his bones; he aches for the warmth that was amiss on the journey here. Five hours by foot with no time for respite and only the weakest threat of winter sun piercing the rolling clouds, barely breaking through the tall trees, as they trod the dreaded path through the bleak, foreboding hinterland.

David had managed to swaddle himself in his warmest clothes before leaving, had been able to pack a spare pair of freshly heeled boots along with a thick, woollen blanket that would be, he was sure, his only source of future comfort. Braced for the journey, he kept himself to himself along the way, as did most. There had been only one incident, though one that was enough to relieve them of two of the recruits; weaklings, both, who'd been straggling behind the rest when night began to fall. "Men!" the recruiter, still breathless from the kill, had called to them, afterwards – although it was clear at a glance that most were still boys – "This is your life now, this is why you're here; to protect the town against those beasts and to serve some kind of purpose, even if it means sacrificing yourself or your kin. Remember this and remember it well: the next time you see a beast, I may not be there to slay it for you."

It was doubtful any of them could forget such a brutal sight. The beast was that of myth; as tall as it was broad, furred and ferocious, emerging quickly from the blackness to steal what pray it could. The slaughter they'd witnessed had been enough to hush the quiet complainers, to extinguish any last flicker of hope any of them may have had that this life would be an easy one. They all understood, now if not before, why the Shield was formed; why the city surrounds needed its protection, and why it sought a constant stream of troubled youth and fallen men, ne'er-do-well recruits that were scarcely missed and easily replaced. They huddled a little closer together, after that, and each strode a little faster through the gloom.

"Welcome weary travellers!" A deep voice bellows as they flock to the camp's fire. "How many have we this time?"

"Six," the recruiter says, wearily, to the short man by the fire, "lost two to a nasty big bastard back at the ridge."

"Better than last quarter, then."

"It is that."

David takes his cue from the rest as they settle at camp, ducking beneath a narrow hessian canopy, laying his bag down on the dirt, though keeping it close (most of his fellow recruits were likely street thieves or worse; he didn't have much, but he'd take no chances with what he had), unravelling the bedroll he's given and settling on it as they're each handed a bowl containing thick, brown liquid.

"Rabbit stew?" asks the recruiter.

"Squirrel," the squat, unknown man tells him before addressing the group, "and make the most of this, lads, for it'll be the last meal you're given for naught. From here on in, you catch your own, you kill your own, you cook your own, else you find some way to barter for your supper."

There's a grumble of begrudging acceptance as they each tuck into the warm, bland stew; all but for the skinny, fair-faced boy beside him who wrinkles his lightly freckled nose at the dish instead and simply holds it between his palms, allowing the bowl to warm his hands but taking no further sustenance from it.

"Do you want it?" he asks, quietly, when he catches David staring.

His stomach rumbles with the offer. His mother hadn't proposed to feed him before sending him on his way. "Only if you don't."

The boy shakes his head, a soft thatch of chestnut hair falling to cover his eyes, and tips the contents of the bowl into David's.

"Thank you," he whispers, eyes darting to check if anyone else bore witness to the kindness. Each busy eating, there are no signs to suggest they have.

When David looks back at the boy, he gives him but a small smile in response and keeps his head bowed as he stares into the fire.

There are brief introductions after they eat; the short man is a dwarf – but tall for his kind, he assures them – named Flannigan, whose haggard face belies his years and is, apparently, a fine cook and knivesman. It would be his job to teach them how to wield a shortsword, how to catch and prepare what they will eat, and how to treat their wounds, should they befall the misfortune to acquire any. The recruiter was named Hudson, a man who was as tall as the dwarf was short. He was, of course, the recruiter, the forestry guide and an apt bowman to boot; he would teach them to shoot, to spot the tell-tale signs of the beast and how to most aptly destroy it.

The recruits themselves exchange little but names.

"Your old lives, your old selves, don't matter now that you're here," says Hudson, gravely. "Old loyalties are as dead as the men we lost on the trail. Here, you will be born anew. Here, you will pledge your fealty to the Shield, to the people of Lima and to your new brothers and, here, you will learn the skills of a hunter and the patience of a saint so that out there, you may one day meet a hero's death."

David nods in understanding. He feels numb right to his core, though whether from the cold alone, or the loss of his old life, he isn't yet sure.

"I need two men for first watch," Flannigan proclaims. "Who that can use his eyes will stand with me?"

"I will," says the fair, skinny boy with the floppy, chestnut hair - Hummel, he said his name was - without hesitation.

"He asked for two _men_," Adams – the fattest and loudest of the recruits – shouts, slapping gleefully at his thigh as the assembly laughs along with rancour.

Hummel flicks his hair back, exposing his face fully for the first time. It's only then that David notices the tip of a pale, pointed ear poking through the shiny locks. It steals his breath; the boy has elfin features, for sure – softly sharp and delicate – but he's never met one of the _others_ before tonight, and here he sits in the presence of both dwarf _and_elf; neither of which, to his knowledge, were ever much welcome in Lima city.

"I may only be half-man," the boy - the _elf_- starts, his voice high but with a hard edge, disdain writ plain across his face, "but that's still more man than you're ever likely to be."

The rest of the crowd around the fire whoops with laughter at that and, this time, David joins in.

"The half-man it is then," says Hudson with a smirk. Hummel rolls his eyes. "Who else is up to task?"

"I am," David says; his own voice taking him by surprise. He reasons that he may as well get quickly accustomed to this new life, to sleepless nights of staring into the unknown.

Besides, he's curious about this...half-man.

oOo

As the rest of the recruits take their rest at camp, Flannigan walks David and Hummel out into the woods, instructs them to stay together and points towards an elevated rock ledge that overlooks the camp and the trees beyond. There, they are to keep watch, holler if they spy either beast or man, and, most importantly, it seems, stay awake. Flannigan hands David a flamed torch and steers them towards the carved, rocky pathway in the hill that will lead them there, taking his post on the ground below, bow on his back and axe in his fist.

It's a while before either dares speak, once they reach their summit, each keeping his eyes fully trained on the darkness, the biting cold keeping them both alert as they look for lurking dangers, but see – mercifully – little but shapes and shadows beneath the clear, starlit sky.

"Aren't you hungry?" David asks, eventually, weary of the silence.

"Not yet," Hummel replies, softly, eyes staying fixed on the trees in front of them as he draws his knees up towards his chest.

"Well, thank you," David mutters, "For earlier."

"You thanked me already."

There's a period of silence, the gentle rustling of leaves in the gaining breeze all that makes a sound, though David is ill-content to see their conversation end so swiftly. "Why did you offer me your food?"

"You looked...hungry," he replies, looking at him this time, meeting his enquiring gaze.

"But what of you?" David asks.

"I'll take foliage and fish when I can, but I won't eat the flesh of another forest creature."

David feels his brow knit in curiosity. "And yet you're willing to kill the beasts that threaten our city, themselves creatures of the forest?"

"I am indeed," his cheek dimples as he smiles and shifts, wrapping long arms further around himself for warmth. "The hypocrisy is not lost on me, yet I could no more eat a rabbit than I could eat you."

David smiles in reply, and finds his eyes lingering on Hummel's lush mouth; he could think of worse ways to meet his end, truth be told, though he leaves that thought unvoiced.

oOo

To allow for assessment of skill, they are split into groups for their first day of training: those who claim to know the land in one and those who claim to know combat in the other. In truth, David knows little of either – as is true of most of them, he imagines - but he's strapping in size, big and burly by birth, and the land is less familiar to him than is fighting, so he's placed in the land-skills group, led by Flannigan, hopeful of learning something that will see him at least able to feed himself when he's left to face the wilds on his own. Hummel, he's saddened to note, is placed in the other group.

Flannigan first hands out supplies and shows them how set rope traps that will snare rabbits or rodents on the forest floor. "Be warned, though, easy as it looks, you're playing a waiting game with this kind of hunting," he tells them. "You're best to use an arrow or an axe once you know how."

After that, they trek towards the nearby river. The winter ice has mostly melted, only shards, thin like cut glass, float on the surface of the still water. By the marshy bank, Flannigan shows them how best to hold a fishing spear and demonstrates the importance of stealth over speed. What David learns best, though, is the concept of beginners luck when he stabs a long, fat bream almost instantly, showing little stealth or skill, much to the chagrin of his peers. He makes the most of the quiet hour he spends there, after that, wading only in the shallow edge of the icy water; he knows he might not fare so well when the groups switch tasks the next day.

When they return to camp, the other group of recruits have already arrived and look on as Hudson demonstrates how best to skin a rabbit. They look a little worse for wear; there's a thick, angry looking cut across Adams's cheek and the red haired boy – whose name David can't quite recall – has a blood-stained bandage tied around his right fist. Hummel, though, looks outwardly unscathed as he sits slightly apart from the rest, legs crossed in front of him, paying Hudson no mind as he hulls a small stack on berries.

David goes about his business, gutting his fish and ignoring the others as they bemoan their own scant spoils. When they assemble around the fire for supper, David cooks his catch over the flame, wordlessly sharing it with Hummel when it's done. The elf-boy doesn't utter a word as he accepts it, but David finds that his silent smile of thanks is all the payment he requires.

oOo

The first week passes quickly and finds him taking watch nightly with Hummel. The other recruits pair up by default; it is no secret that they have little desire to work alongside the elf, even if has proved a force to be reckoned with. David is almost grateful for that. He enjoys the quiet moments he gets to spend with Hummel; they are devoid of the need for erroneous tales of conquests and accomplishments, the endless mockery, he endures while in the company of the other recruits. Often times they sit in silence, simply absorbing the sounds of the night. Other times, when the wind howls around them, Hummel hums softly, a sweet sound that serves to soothe them both. This night, as they huddle closer than usual, taking what cover they can from the rain as it falls, they talk.

"What brought you here?"

David feels disarmed by the suddenness of the elf-boy's question. His eyes stay fixed on the dark wash of the night. "You mean, to train for the Shield?"

"Yes." Hummel says, simply. David chances a look, then, and finds Hummel's gaze still directed outwards, knees clutched tightly against his chest.

"I refused to marry my betrothed," David tells him, trying to keep any emotion from betraying his voice, "and shamed my family."

Hummel nods slightly, but says nothing for at least a full minute before asking, "Was she a horror?"

"No," he says, with a faltering smile. Tana was, by most men's standards, anything but. When they'd first met at the age of twelve, she had been the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, a fact that had never changed. Nor, though, had the fact that he felt nothing for her.

"Had you another girl?"

The line of enquiry starts to fill David with a nameless dread. He shakes his head, "No."

The elf turns towards him, then; face as pale as the moonlight itself, eyes the clear blue of a warm summer sky, and asks earnestly, "Then why?"

"I..." he swallows the freshly formed lump in his throat as he dares speak the truth, feeling powerless to do anything else, "My mother says I have a disease of the mind and the morals. She sent me here to be cured by honorable work or, at least, to be out of her sight."

Hummel doesn't flinch, just continues to look at him intently; the softness in his gaze compelling.

"I have never felt especially drawn to the charms of a woman," David mutters, shrugging his shoulders, tense with a fear that only the truth brings, "such is my illness."

"You don't look, to me, as though you are ailing," Hummel smiles softly at him before looking away, letting his chin fall to rest atop his bent knees, a stray droplet of rainwater rolling down and off the straight slope of his nose. He makes to say nothing more.

They both stays silent for a stretch, David basks in the relieved hush as some of his former fear drains away. "What of you?" he asks.

Hummel's lips curve upwards again; but a brief flash of teeth and dimpled cheeks before it's gone. He huffs, "Need you ask?"

David nods in understanding - this world is seldom tolerant of those who are, in any way, different - though, having shared his own secret, he isn't quite satisfied by the answer. He probes, "How did you come to live in Lima?"

"I was born here, near the city," he sighs. "My mother was an elf; my father human. She was killed when I was a child."

"Out of...malice?" David asks, shock and sadness colouring his words.

"Yes. To send a message," he frowns. "We fled, but it was difficult, for my father, in the elfwood. And I found I belonged there no more than here. My presence in Lima continued to hinder my father's trade and, as consequence, his health, so I thought it best to leave. This way, I can at least protect him in some small way, not just from the threat of the beasts, but from the shame of a half-breed son."

David wants to protest, to offer comfort, but knows there's nothing to be said. They are, each of them, as outcast and unwanted as the other. He halts his voice and offers a melancholy smile in lieu of words.

oOo

There is growing complacency around the camp. More than a week has passed and not a beast has been sighted or slain.

"Be thankful," Hudson tells them. "But remain vigilant. It won't always be this way."

It seems he was right; his words ring like a prophecy when David wakes the very next night, long before time for his watch, a disturbance wreaking havoc in the camp.

"It got Flannigan! It took Flannigan!" Adams shouts in blind panic, tearing into the camp, burning torch in hand, with the outline of Nelson at his heels.

"What happened?" Hudson barks, instantly up and out of his bedroll.

The boys gibber about the beast appearing as if from thin air; there was no sound – none at all, they say – and then Flannigan was shouting and by the time they'd climbed down from their post, only a trail of blood and an ill-used axe remained where the dwarf had stood.

Hudson starts to speak again but David is distracted by the shadowy sight of Hummel beside him, rising, bow in hand.

"I can hear it," Hummel whispers to him before he can query.

David's eyes search the dark. It is black and silent around them, the only light or sound coming from their right, from the torch in Adams's hand and the harsh whisper of Hudson's voice. "Then tell Hudson, do not risk—"

"Ssh," he hears and there's a shuffle, a swift whooshing sounds, a snap in the dark, followed by a howl and a thud and another swift whoosh.

"He's down," Hummel says, his voice elevated. He moves past David with stealth, between the bedrolls, over towards Adams where he plucks the torch from his fist without uttering a word. The rest look on in stunned silence.

The torchflame lights his face as he moves; a vision against the shadows, his face painted in amber, eyes wide and maniacally bright as he strides to the far edge of the camp, bow and quiver slung on his back, towards the incline of the hill and the line of the trees – fifty feet away, if it's an inch – and lowers the torch to ground, illuminating the slain beast, twice the elf-boy's size and girth, one arrow in its neck and another in its chest. He braces a foot on the beast and hauls at the arrow buried in its flesh, retrieving both before setting light to the carcass.

David realises his heart is beating double time in his chest as he watches Hummel return unhurriedly to camp, backlit by the growing flame of the fire, as the stupefied mutterings of their small group grow in volume.

"I didn't think you had it in you, Hummel," Hudson says with reluctant cheer. "Would that you had been on watch instead of these two, Flannigan might be here still."

He only nods his head as Adams huffs his objection. "I'll take next watch," Hummel tells them.

"If you think you're still up to task."

His jaw set, he says nothing more, only comes back his bedroll and tucks it away, gathering his pack as David, unbidden, begins to do the same. Though barely visible in the gloom, he catches Hummel's eyes on him, and his small smile of satisfaction.

On their watch, they sit close. They see no further beasts that night, but Hummel clutches his bow to his chest and keeps his quiver on his back all the same. After a while, he hums a slow, sad tune that, when David asks, he explains is an Elvish song of mourning. When David smiles softly and rests a hand of comfort on the half-man's arm, he sings the rest aloud; unknown words fill the space between them, each foreign verse somehow easing a little of the fear from David's heart, lifting his spirit.

oOo

It is now undeniable that Hummel is adept with a bow and arrow; as good, at least, as Hudson himself, the man begrudgingly admits. The same cannot be said of the rest.

"Almost a fortnight gone and you have made little progress. Do you think the beasts will be scared off by your ugly faces alone?" Hudson asks the assemblage, exasperation raising his voice. "If that were the case, Flannigan would still be here with us now. These," he points two digits towards his eyes, "and these," he wields a sheath of arrows aloft, "are the tools you best learn to use if you wish to do your duty. Blind fury with a blade is all well and good; but if a beast is near enough to stab or slice, you may be too late to protect even your pride."

When Hudson returns that morning to the city to fetch another skilled Shieldsman, Hummel is enlisted to share his skill with the rest, though when he tries it's met without enthusiasm, despite the proof of his merit; the affront of receiving such help from an _elf_perceived by most as somehow worse than their shameless incompetence. David, however, holds no such perception.

"Relax your posture and widen your stance," says Hummel as he moves in close behind him, "then pull back slowly until the string is stiff."

David does as he's bid, but his fingers feel thick and clumsy as they attempt to hold both the fletching of the arrow and the string of the bow, not least due to the comparative slender grace of Hummel's hand gripping his own when he sees him falter. The hold helps him keep the arrow sure and straight, and David feels his hand gently guided all the way back.

"Now aim upwards of the target and angle against the wind's direction," Hummel whispers, and his hand stills but doesn't retreat. His fingers are warmer than David's - warmer than they have any right to be in the midst of winter - and the heat is distracting, much like the tickle of breath on his neck as Hummel finishes, "And let go."

David attempts to angle the bow, to send the arrow soaring through the air, but his fingers fail him, shaking beneath the nock, as he pulls back too hard, too quick, causing the string of the bow to snap. The arrow flies, but in the wrong direction; the tension causing the shaft to rebound on the limb of the bow and sail backwards, sending the blunt end of the nock into the socket of his right eye.

He drops both bow and arrow and blinks against the bleariness. Hummel gasps and lays a swift hand upon his cheek, thumb gently circling his eye.

"There is scarcely any blood, though the skin is slightly broken," he says and pulls his hand back, as quickly as it had come, "but arnica flower will help."

David winces as he nods in response. He can feel the start of a righteous ache that is sure to swell his skin and leave his eye black.

"Be careful, Karofsky," Nelson bellows when he catches sight of the injury, "it looks like the elf mistook you for a beast."

"You're surely big and ugly enough," Adams adds with amusement.

"Not near as big nor ugly as you," Hummel states dryly before David can add his own retort.

The boys simply laugh at that, and Strando - the red-haired recruit - pipes in, "Karofsky's no beast, he's an oaf."

"An oaf that needs the little elfling to protect him," Adams says with a scowl.

David steps forward, shaking with impotent rage before Hummel lays a calming hand on his forearm. The boors continue to chuckle as they wander away, but say nothing more.

"I'm sorry," Hummel offers.

"Don't be," David attempts to smile, the slight facial movement causing him to cringe as he does, "it was my own doing. And they're right, I'm an oaf. A clumsy one at that."

Hummel bites his lip, suppressing a smile as he picks up the fallen bow. If he disagrees, he doesn't say as much.

oOo

David's eye has become sealed shut, encircled by his puffy, purpling skin.

Archery abandoned for the day, they set off into the woods in search of the arnica flower that might aid his healing.

"It will sooth the swelling at least, so you might again have use of both eyes," Hummel tells him with a grin. "A blind man is of scant use to me on a watch."

By the time they find the small, yellow flower and return to the camp to prepare it, the heavens have opened and they're both soaked to the skin. They sit beneath the shade, the dripping dampness slightly better than the pouring rain, and Hummel digs in his bag for a small coverlet, carefully wiping it over his face, drying it, before offering it to David so he might do the same. The soft, fleecy fabric smells to David like cut grass and winter berries. Hummel then fetches a knife, a small bowl and a flask of grain alcohol (from what was Flannigan's not so secret stash) and proceeds to make a thin yellow tincture with the components.

"Did you learn this trick from Flannigan?" David poses when Hummel hands him the bowl.

"No," he laughs, and pushes rain-sodden hair back off his face, "I learned it in the elfwood as a boy and it served me well. I was a lumbering child."

"I don't think I believe that."

"Then you may consider me a liar as well as a bad teacher," he jests and sits back on his heels.

David huffs in dissent and dips an experimental finger into the mix, raising it cautiously towards his eye.

"Here," Hummel asks, reaching out, hand hovering in mid air between them, "May I?"

David nods, grateful, as Hummel kneels before him, scooping the mixture onto two fingers and dotting it gingerly around his tender socket.

"Thank you for this," David sighs, allowing his other eye to fall shut. "Your skills would be better used helping the others, or at least fetching—"

"Hush," the elf-boy says in good-natured reproach. "I would rather be here than there, anyway."

He bites back a smile, "You would?"

"No one but you will even take my help when I offer it. You've heard them; pledge to the Shield or not, they will never accept me as a brother, or even treat me like a...like even _half_ a man, so yes," his hand stills on David's skin and he looks him in his good eye, "I would much rather be here, with you. My _friend_."

David finds he can't keep his lips from curling upwards at the giddy rush of happiness those words elicit. Through his left eye, he watches Hummel's face as he begins again to soothe the bruising with gentle strokes; blue gaze dark with concentration, lips bowed in a subtle smile of his own.

In that moment, he can hear the pitter-patter of the falling rain, can smell the freshly drenched earth, and feel the pulse of his aching flesh, his pounding heart, at odds with the slow, soft strokes of Hummel's warm fingers as he applies the salve with care. He can sense Hummel's breath again, too; hot and moist against his own cold, drying skin. He wants to savour this feeling, to revel in all the wet, comforting warmth of it. He aches to soak the moment in, to drown in it, if he can, and, before he can think better of it, he seems to have found a way: he presses forward and his lips find Hummel's with a smack that spreads heat through him in crashing waves, saturating his skin pore by pore.

It could be mere seconds or an elm's age before Hummel pulls away, eyes wide in surprise, blinking rapidly as he retreats, abandoning the small bowl of salve at his feet to stand. His cheeks bear more colour than David has ever seen there before, blooms of pink that lead all the way up and to the points of his ears. He turns and flees without a word.

David feels like he's been sunk in reverse, yanked back into the cold, unforgiving air. His skin prickles. The moment is lost, the glee gone; the pain in his throbbing eye pales in comparison to the fresh ache in his lungs, in his heart.

oOo

The rest of group returns to camp with rabbits and squirrels and even a hare; clearly having applied their efforts to trapping small game in order to fill their bellies instead of practicing with arrows on tree drawn targets as they'd been bid before Hudson left. David doesn't greet them, just sits by the fire he took great pains to rekindle once the rain had ceased. The boys boast of their spoils, pausing only to poke fun at his injury and ask questions he has no way of knowing the answers to _("Where is the little elfling, then?", "When will Hudson return?", "Who'll take first watch if we remain a man and a half down?"_) He speaks only to tell them that both their mockery and enquiries are wasted on him; he knows nothing of anything and cares of even less.

He huddles, still damp beneath his clothes, under his blanket and stays close to the flame of the fire. His eye throbs in a damning rhythm with his heart, threatening to keep sleep from him. He feels ill; sickened further by the knowledge that there is no cure for what ails him, no tincture, no healing plant, for what pains him most.

Sleep claims him in the end. When he wakes, it's with Hummel settling beside him, twilight darkening the cloud laden sky. He is surprised to see the elf-boy taking the empty space by his side, just as he would if everything were normal.

David doesn't lift his head, even when Hummel starts to speak, "I had no tools, so I got what little I could by hand," he says, quietly, "you are welcome to half."

David doesn't respond, just watches as Hummel unrolls a large, green leaf to produce five small fish – sprats – and digs a hand into the pocket of his tunic to retrieve a handful of chestnuts and some dark, dewy berries. He skewers the fish on a thin blade and roasts them over the flame. David doesn't feel hungry, but nor does he protest when Hummel nudges at his elbow for him to sit up and forces his hand flat with his fingers, sliding three of the small, sizzling fish into his palm.

He sees that Hudson is back, then; an equally tall, dark-haired man by his side. The man chooses that moment to speak loud enough that all are forced to heed his words, drowning out David's whisper of gratitude, as he introduced the new Shieldsman, Smythe, to the recruits.

Hummel smiles, briefly, though David daren't hope the expression is meant for him.

oOo

They take watch, as they usually do after dark, accompanying Hudson as they're bid. David's eye is bloodshot, purple and blue to the bridge of his nose, though the swelling has gone and, if Hudson notices the injury, he says nothing of it on the way, just takes his post on the ground with a quiet nod as the other two climb the familiar, rocky hill.

Nothing is said until they reach the ledge, where David makes sure to keep them further apart than usual before finding the courage to speak.

"I'm so sor—"

"How is your eye?" Hummel cuts him off instantly, his tone flippant. "It looks better."

"It's fine, but please—"

"That said, the purple of the bruise does not become your—"

"Hummel, _please_," David implores, eyes growing watery with each word, "allow me at least to apologise for what hap—"

"I don't want your apology, Karofsky," Hummel cuts him off again, though this time his tone seems to contradict his words - gentle where it should sound harsh - and he shifts himself to bring them closer.

David chances a look at his face, confusion in his eyes. He can find no words to say.

"The illness you spoke of," Hummel speaks again, at last, and looks towards David intently, trepidation clouding his gaze in a way that David has never witnessed before, "I fear I suffer the same affliction, and I..._aniron_..."

He trails off with a word that David doesn't understand and looks away, blinking into the night. As David lets the words he _does_know sink in, Hummel's warm hand finds his own where it rests in his lap and he takes it, holds it in a deliberate, desperate grip.

The warmth of it seeps into his skin, runs through his blood, melting the despair in his heart. Even so, he closes his eyes before he dares speak, barely above a whisper, "I...I find that when I am with you, I no longer wish to be cured."

Hummel squeezes his hand tighter, just for a moment, before raising their entwined fingers towards his lips and pressing a soft, feather-light kiss to the swell of David's knuckles. "Nor do I," he sighs.

oOo

Although David ached for more, they risked only hand-holding on the remainder of their watch, content to let the fear dissipate, the knowledge of their matched desire sink fully in.

When they'd returned to camp for rest, they'd lain close but allowed nothing more than their feet to touch through the layers of fleece and hessian that made up their bedrolls. Still, David was sure he could feel Hummel's heat warm him, even then.

In the light of day, with the rest of the recruits going about their business around them, with sun piercing the fat, grey clouds just enough to reveal patches of wintry cobalt sky that brings to mind the piercing blue of Hummel's eyes, David finds that he is eager for them to steal away into the forest, to share more time in which they can speak, and touch, and _be_, more freely.

"Come," David calls to him with a hopeful smile when their fast has been broken, heading upwood towards the watch post as the rest make way for the tall trees by the river.

Hummel smiles and bounds towards him.

"You two," a voice stops them in their tracks. They turn to see Smythe still filling his quiver, the charming smile he'd worn earlier absent from his lips as he jerks his head in the opposing direction, "join the rest of your men."

"Leave them," Hudson interjects, "Hummel is an elf, and you know as well as anyone that boys can be cruel enough without such an excuse. He is already adept with a bow, shows skill with a knife and a better understanding of the wood than either you or I ever could."

"What of his...companion?" Smythe asks, still frowning.

"He'll be taught the necessary skills by one who is, I'm quite sure, equipped to teach him well."

"Still," Smythe declares, glancing at Hudson, "I would like to assess that skill for myself. They will stay with the rest, for now."

"Very well," Hudson concedes, unhappily. He nods towards them, "You heard the man."

They share a look as they turn and make their way to the wood, David pained though grateful that his disappointment is mirrored on Hummel's face.

oOo

When they'd taken turns to introduce themselves and apprised Smythe of, with Hudson's frank assistance, their individual skills and weaknesses, they were each set training tasks to complete. David was once again separated from Hummel; this time placed with Hudson and three of the others to practice shooting blunt arrows at bolts made of hey wrapped in burlap, while Hummel set deeper into the woods with Smythe and Adams to set new – and _better_, Smythe had said, smugly – traps at the bases of hollow trees and to look for tracks in the dirt that might indicate the last path the beast took towards their camp.

When they gathered again, the recruits were, all of them, sent on their way to fetch their own share of food and firewood before nightfall.

David wasted no time in steering Hummel away from the rest, farther from their camp, down towards the narrow end of the river where they might bow fish and further explore their fondness for one another.

"I see you managed not to injure yourself today," Hummel teases as they walk. "Hudson is clearly a better teacher than am I."

"I disagree," David says with a smile, "but even if he were, he's not nearly such pleasant company."

Hummel laughs at that, a rich, melodic sound that stirs something deep within David's chest. "Trust me, Adams was a poor substitute for you by my side today, too."

"Did he torment you?"

"No more than usual," he replies.

"And how was Smythe's tutelage?"

"I learned little." Hummel looks thoughtful before carrying on, "He seemed intent on putting Adams in his place, though otherwise he was more keen to exhibit the breadth and value of his talents than to educate either of us."

David feels strangely discomfited by the assessment. "And are his talents wide-ranging and valuable?" he asks.

Hummel gives him an enquiring glance, then grins again as he shrugs his shoulders, "Not so as to impress me, if that's your concern."

"Oh?" David asks, responding to the mischief in his friend's voice. "And what, Hummel, does impress you?"

"Kindness."

"Kindness. Is that all it takes?"

"Hmm," they take several strides and David watches with interest as his friend bites his bottom lip before speaking again, "Kindness, and a strong, sturdy frame."

This time, David laughs, but dares say nothing more, as they both blush pink to the dissimilar tips of their ears and climb the short, steep knoll that leads to edge of the wood.

When they reach the summit of the mound, the river coming into view beyond the trees, Hummel adjusts his pack and speaks again, "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course," David tells him and boldly reaches for his hand as they ascend the slippery grass slope, "You may feel free to ask me anything at all."

That answer seems to satisfy him. He beams, "I know you as Karofsky, but what is your given name?"

"David."

"David," he repeats slowly, drawing the two syllables out, still smiling as he does. "I like that name."

David finds himself immeasurably pleased by the assertion. "Tell me yours."

"Kurt," he says.

"Kurt?" David repeats, tilting his head in subtle query.

"Yes," he nods and narrows his eyes. "Is it not to your liking?"

"No, no," David protests, keenly. For such an uncommon creature, he simply expected something equally as exotic. "Kurt is a fine name, just not at all what I expected. It doesn't sound particularly..._Elvish_."

Hummel - _Kurt_- affects a pout, although keeps their fingers entwined. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you."

David shakes his head. "Believe me when I say you have yet to disappoint me in any way, Kurt."

He licks his lips as they curve upwards towards a playful smile. "I would hope to keep it that way, David."

David finds his cheeks begin to tingle again, heat pooling beneath the surface of his skin, as his smile spreads at Kurt's words. He ducks his head so that both his blush and his joy might remain concealed as they walk.

Kurt untangles their fingers and leans into him, gently jabbing his side with his elbow, "What about my words so amuses you?"

"It simply pleases me to hear my name upon your lips."

"It does?" Kurt asks, remaining pressed close as they slow to a stop by the river's edge.

David nods. He feels emboldened by the mirth in Kurt's voice, by the flush that lights his cheeks, rivalling his own, and goes on, "Though it would please me more to feel your lips upon my own."

"Well," the elf-boy says, blushing beautifully as his gaze shifts from David's eyes to his mouth and he leans in close, "If I've yet to disappoint you, _David_, I would hate to start now."

oOo

"You are brothers, like it or not," Smythe says, an arrow bouncing in his palm as he addresses the group in the weak morning light. "You know that you will take no other vows after swearing to the Shield, yes? That you will make no friends and take no wife and father no children." He clutches the arrow in his fist and points it towards them, turning in a semicircle to include them all as he continues, "These men, at your side, are your bread and butter; whether they keep you sane or drive you mad, you have a duty to protect and honour them as you would have them do to you. Understand?"

There's a mumble of agreement amidst the rolling of eyes. David catches Kurt's glare at Adams before he looks to see the fat boy giggling with Nelson at some private joke, no doubt at Kurt's expense. He aches to take his hand in a gesture of comfort. He offers a small smile instead which is quickly returned.

"Today, you will train, side by side and with honour. Today, and in each day going forward, you will serve as men, as brothers, just as you will when you swear to the Shield." Smythe declares with passion, and looks pointedly at Adams. "Anyone who finds himself ill content to do so may leave the camp at once."

The recruits grumble but none make to leave.

"Adams and Nelson will come with me today, the rest go with Hudson."

The recruits are quiet as they gather their wares and their weapons from the camp and David notices that neither Adams nor Nelson is still smiling as they follow Smythe into the woods.

"Ready, men?" Hudson asks as he leads them towards the tall trees.

They cheer in half-hearted unison and follow behind him.

"I am honoured to train at your side today, Kurt," David whispers as they trail behind the rest. When their eyes meet he feels his body heat from the inside out.

"And I with you, David."

oOo

They find it isn't too difficult to sneak away from the rest, after that. They have to hunt and fish and forage, and are free to do so as they please in the short hours between training and nightfall, which are, with the tail end of winter approaching, growing longer by the day. They each find the extra time serves their growing appetites.

"Please," David groans, tearing his lips away from Kurt's, hands clutching at the elf-boy's still-moving hips as he lies atop him on the damp, marshy grass by the river, "be still."

"Why?" He gasps, face flushed.

"I...your hips will be my undoing, otherwise."

Kurt's eyes widen and sparkle at the meaning of his words. His hips grow still and David finds himself groaning again at the loss of friction.

"I will do as you ask," Kurt says, his voice wonderfully low and breathy, and shifts, putting a wisp of space between them before allowing his hand to slip between their bodies, where it settles over the bulge in David's trousers, proof positive that his end is in sight, "but only because I would rather see you undone by my hand, if you'll allow it."

David falters at his words, at the desire in his gaze and responds only by taking Kurt's mouth again, by thrusting himself into his friend's eager touch.

oOo

They lose Nelson the week before they are due to swear to the Shield. Though the beast's approach was spotted timeously and the creature aptly slain, none had noticed the second, skulking beast in the trees behind them as they put the first to rest. It will have been a quick and painless death, Hudson assures them. Despite the fact that Smythe, for once, concurs with Hudson's assertion, it's clear from their faces that none in the camp believe him.

When David and Kurt take their turn at watch that night, they daren't lose focus for long enough to steal a kiss or gaze upon the face of the other, but they do nestle close, fingers entwining as they stare into a night that seems blacker than most.

Kurt sings his song of mourning, the same one as before. The Elvish words remain foreign to David's ears, but he feels their meaning with each haunting melodious whisper of his friend's voice.

"You should sing, too," he says, after a stretch of silence when the song comes to an end.

David shakes his head sadly. "Yours are the only songs I care to hear."

"Then I will teach you the words, in time," Kurt tells him and let's his head fall upon his shoulder.

"In time," David repeats with a smile, though they remain silent for the remainder of their watch.

oOo

The rain has not stopped for a week. David has grown accustomed to the dreary dampness, to the soggy feel of his trousers against his dampened skin and, even moreso, to balmy kisses from Kurt, to the increasingly skilled and nimble fingers that search and warm his flesh.

They lie side by side, stripped of their sodden outer layers, in a cavernous shelter by the west of the river, a good thirty minutes upwood from camp.

They first encountered it while wandering in search of arnica flower (Smythe demanded that Kurt teach the rest how to prepare the healing tincture, once he'd seen the results for himself after a fall) and it has quickly becomes _their_place; a secret hideaway where their affections need not be so secret, at least for a stolen hour each day.

This day, the rain has not come by itself; with it, there are forks of light in the sky and hefty crashes of thunder that shake the heavens above them. It makes David especially grateful for their moments together under shelter, before they must return to the ignorance of their peers and the mercy of the elements.

"Sing to me, Kurt," David requests, carding his fingers through his friend's water-darkened hair, tangling their legs together where they lie on the mossy rock. He makes the request not because he is afraid of the howling wind or the roaring thunder but because, in moments such as this, it affords him the ability to focus his attention just on Kurt, on _them_, rather than the greater world outside.

"I would have you sing to me instead, for once," Kurt counters, rolling David onto his back and climbing astride his thighs, both hands braced on his chest.

"I told you, I cannot sing, and I know no songs as sweet as yours."

"Then what better time to learn?" Kurt says, reaching for David's hands and raising them above his head, pinning him at the wrists.

"I can't," he protests with an ill-suppressed smirk.

"Try," Kurt orders and rolls his hips, "I would make you sing for me, somehow, David."

"You make my heart sing, is that not enough?" he pleads in earnest, making no attempt at all to free himself from Kurt's firm hold.

That simple truth earns David his favourite smile from Kurt; the one that lights his eyes and dimples his cheeks. He releases David's hands and trails his fingers down over his forearms, his biceps, to his chest, with a deceptively light touch, stilling over his pounding heart. "For now," he says softly and leans in for a kiss that soon extends beyond his mouth; down over the furred line of his jaw, growing wet and hungry at his throat as nimble fingers work at the fastenings of his tunic.

"If you undress me you must promise to keep me warm by some other means," David just manages to say before his breath is halted by the feel of Kurt's mouth following the path freshly exposed by his fingers.

"I know of many means by which to do so," Kurt pants between kisses, "but the one I have in mind remains, as yet, untested."

A jolt of pleasure runs through him, his muscles clench and twitch in anticipation and he growls his assent in advance of Kurt's request.

Before long, Kurt is sheathed deep in his body and David is indeed forced to sing; a wordless, rhythmic song of ecstasy that comes as he is milked of his seed and his senses.

oOo

It is near enough dark before they wake.

"Make yourselves decent!" Smythe cries and kicks lightly at David's calf with his boot.

The first sight he sees is Kurt's wide, startled eyes before he's up and gathering himself and his clothing, dressing with unsteady hands, grateful that Smythe has left them to task, only his back visible outside the curved entrance to the cave.

He feels his heart in his mouth as he dares speak, "I'm so very sorry, Kurt."

His lover shakes his head and grabs his hand, "I will never be sorry for this," he says before letting his fingers fall and exiting the cavern.

"I suspected as much," the man huffs and turns to look at them. "I can't say I blame you," his voice softens as he reaches a hand towards Kurt's cheek and attempts to stroke the pad of his thumb along the swell of his lower lip, "he is such a pretty creature."

Kurt bats his hand swiftly away.

"Might that I would take my pleasure here as well..."

David's body lurches with rage; he grabs for Smythe, twists the man's arm high behind his back and presses his own forearm tight against his throat. "Touch him again and I shall see you meet your hero's death by the fury of my fists."

Smythe shakes free and, when he catches his breath, smiles. "Make haste back to camp," he says, dusting his leather coat about his chest, "we are all at risk of meeting a hero's death if we remain out here in the gloom."

oOo

Not a word of their indiscretion is uttered at camp as they gather to eat before the night's watch begins. David remains ill at ease, nonetheless, as does Kurt; he can see the lingering trepidation darken his lover's eyes.

Their concern is lessened none when Smythe announces he will be taking first watch this night, in place of Hudson, alongside them both. Until, that is, they are a safe distance from camp and he opens his mouth.

"Your display of fury impressed me this evening, Karofsky," he grins at him, "if only each of our men cared so fiercely for one another I am certain we'd lose less lives on the watch."

David is at a loss for words; he glances warily at Kurt as they walk a few steps behind the man, who meets his gaze with the same chary look.

"And trust me, Hummel, when I say I meant you no harm, but I have seen you protect yourself and those around you. I had yet to witness the same from your brother."

"You are not...sickened by what you saw?" Kurt asks, pacing forward.

"That would be a hypocrisy that is beneath me," he states, shaking his head, "Though it isn't oft acknowledged, it has long since been the way of the Shield. It is a short, lonely life otherwise."

David bites the inside of his cheek to mask the smile that aches to break free; the relief he feels floods his system like a tonic.

"However, my concern is that you might be distracted on your watch, that you would risk the safety of the rest of us in order to pay attention to each other."

"That has never proved a problem before, sir," David finds his voice, at last.

"Not as yet," Smythe counters.

When they get to their post, Smythe hands Kurt his torch and bids him to sit. David's feels his chest deflate. "But-"

"But I cannot afford to take any risks," Smythe states, cutting him off. "And as the time draws near for you to swear to the Shield, you must understand that you may not be posted together."

He knew as much, deep down, but he'd yet to dare give thought to the concern, much less voice it.

"As such," Smythe looks towards Kurt, "you will man the ground while Karofsky and I keep watch. Make the most of what time you have left together by the light of the day, but know that the night demands your full attention."

oOo

Following a long, silent watch, they are relieved of their duty and return to camp. David is tired and as fearful of the future as once he was when it meant Tana and children and a wanting sickness clawing at his skin.

He and Kurt set out their beds and lay side by side, as close as is decent, separated only by the cloth of each bedroll and their joint will to go unneeded.

Now that the storm has passed, the moonlit sky is clear and bright, the air cool and still. David can make out the lines of Kurt's profile, can see the glimmer of stars reflected in his eyes.

"I missed you tonight," he whispers into the dark when he thinks Smythe might be taken by sleep.

Kurt turns onto his side and wordlessly reaches out a hand to touch David's face; the pad of a calloused thumb pleasantly abrading his cheek. The shadow of a smile twitches his lips.

"What are you thinking?" David queries.

"I..._mela lle_," he responds softly, his lashes fluttering as he speaks the words, still tenderly stroking David's skin.

"That's not fair. I don't understand what that means," David says with hushed breath, though he finds his own lips quirking towards a smile in any case. "Tell me?"

He nods, eyes twinkling like fallen stars. "It means that I...care for you, that you mean more to me than a friend, or even a brother."

"Mela lle," David repeats and brings his hand up to rest atop Kurt's, closing his eyes, willing sleep to claim him before he risks stealing a kiss.

oOo

There is but one day left at camp; tomorrow will see David and the rest swear to the Shield for better or worse, will see the arrival of new Shieldsmen who will guide them in their uncertain pairs to a new post, a new pasture, each.

As he lies with Kurt on the dewy grass, spent and sated, he finds himself reluctant to let go.

"Just one more kiss, and then I will dress you myself, I swear," he mutters against his lovers smile.

"You are a glutton for affection, David," he chides and pulls his head back and away from David's kiss.

"I simply wish to get as much of you as I can while I may," he says, pulling him back in.

The words strike a chord and he instantly acquiesces; humming with pleasure as David bites at the plump flesh of his lower lip. David aims to memorise the unique taste and texture of their tongues tangling languorously together, the sticky press of their sweat-slicked skin, so it might warm his thoughts if not his body in the long months to come. He hopes, if they are parted, that Kurt might remember him in the same way.

When they have cleaned and dressed and righted themselves, David stalls to dig deep in his bag to retrieve a trinket that may aide his lover's memory.

"Here," he says, pushing the wooden figurine into Kurt's open hand, "I wish you to have this, to keep it if we are parted, so that you might think of me, still."

"I am unlikely to forget," Kurt says, his face alight with wonder. David watches with a strange nervousness as he runs his fingers over the carved wood surface of the figure; a crudely hewn man and woman, their hands joined between them, "What is it?"

"It is foolhardy, I know, but this is all that remains of my former life, of my failed attempt at normality."

"From your wedding?"

David nods. "I kept it as a symbol of the life I left, of what I thought I would never be able to have."

Kurt smiles at him, warm enough to melt the fear that remains in his heart. "Thank you, David," he whispers.

"Thank you, Kurt," David says and closes the gap between them, wrapping his fist around the figure now caught between their joined hands, "for giving me something I never dreamed I deserved."

oOo

They wake to unknown men in their camp; two Shieldsman with whom they'd be taking their leave this very day.

The fire is lit and their fast broken; there is an eerie calm about the camp, a quiet gloom that makes it feel as though it were their day of reckoning rather than their day of commencement.

The Shieldsmen sit apart from the rest, talking quietly among themselves, before bidding the recruits to gather their belongings and to line up before them, to take a knee.

A few words are exchanged between them all; platitudes offered and backs slapped. David takes what might be his last chance to hold Kurt close to him and murmurs, "You will always be more to me than a Shield brother, whatever fate befalls us today."

Kurt nods back at him in fervent concurrence, his smile is diluted by sadness.

They each take a knee on the cool, wet grass and swear to the Shield, repeating Hudson's words, line after line: _"I am a shield to the city, to its citizens and servants alike. I pledge my life to my task and to this, my only vow; to die before my brothers, to part with my pride and my possession so that I might better protect my people. Such is the way of the Shield."_

There's a sharp finality to the words; a simple promise, freely given, that seals his fate. An unnamed man with sallow skin and hard, black eyes pins a brooch to each new Shieldsman's chest; a silver bow crossed by an arrow. David's eyes find Kurt's as soon as they are free to do so, though neither is able to feign a smile.

"Those named Strando and Weston are to come with me," says the dark-haired man, his tone weary. David feels a lump form in his throat as the boys step forward and follow the man, making their departure without to-do or delay.

"I'll take Adams and Karofsky," the other unknown Shieldsman – a tall, slender man with light hair grey at the temples – orders as he hefts his bag over his shoulder, "and with uneven numbers, one must stay behind. Hummel shall stay here with Hudson and train the next lot so that Smythe may go back to the city."

Adams huffs at his assignment and, prepared for it though he was, David's heart sinks.

"Why must I stay?" Kurt asks, face fallen, his upset easy to read.

"Because your recruiter said you are the most skilled, lad. Be pleased; you've the makings of a trainer."

Kurt only blinks back at the man, speech failing him in the face of such damning praise.

"Actually, I would beg to differ," Smythe speaks, as Hudson glares at him, "Hummel is good with a bow, yes; but he refuses to hunt game and struggles to wield authority on account of his heritage."

"Hmm, he is an _other_, true enough."

"Indeed, I find Adams here to be a more fitting candidate for trainer."

It is clear, to David and Kurt, at least, what Smythe is doing, though he is scared to raise a hope.

"No matter to me, so long as he has eyes and the will to wield a weapon," the man says with a heavy sigh. He turns and starts on his way out of the camp, yelling over his shoulder, "though whoever's coming had best move his arse!"

Kurt is sucking on his lips, forcing back a premature smile as he looks to David with wide eyes. David finds his heart skips a beat.

"Fine," Hudson concedes, "Hummel may go with Karofsky and Sylvester; Adams shall stay here."

"Good man," says Smythe with a grin. Adams simply huffs again and drops his bag at his feet.

"Thank you," Kurt says, returning the man's smile.

"Thank you," David parrots; all in the world he can think of to say.

"I trust you both to do your duty," Smythe slaps them both on the back and starts to walk them forward, following in the tracks of a slowly departing Sylvester, "Besides, who but Hummel will protect an oaf like you out there, Karofsky?"

They share a laugh that lingers too long in the face of their near despair. As Smythe retreats, David reaches for Kurt's hand, allowing their fingers to briefly entwine.

"Be safe," Smythe calls after them, his final words as they set off to take up their post on the South side of the river, old lives behind them; a new shared one afoot. David glances at Kurt as they walk and is mesmerized, still, by this creature that has become more than his friend, more than his brother, as they trained for the Shield. The one who made him feel whole and well, with whom he aims to share his bed and his body, his work and his fare and, if fortune favors him as it did today, his future, his life.

The End

oOo

Elvish translations:  
Aniron - _I desire_  
Mela lle - _Love you_


End file.
